One Tent, One Dog, One Scent

I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been wound until I caught myself answering work emails at midnight again. My body felt like a knot I couldn’t untie. So. I did something impulsive. I bought a tent. A real one. I loaded the car with a little grill, a sleeping bag, a few groceries, and Harley, my scruffy golden mix who never says no to an adventure.

After my shower that morning, I packed a small bag of personal things—just the basics. My eyes landed on the bottle of Journey, a gift I got for my birthday. I hesitated, then smiled. “Why not?” I tossed it in.

The drive out of the city felt like exhaling for the first time in months. I set up camp on a secluded beach overlooking Lake Michigan, cooked something simple, and fell asleep to the sound of wind against canvas. I woke up ten hours later—ten full hours! My body didn’t know what to do with that kind of rest.

I brewed coffee over the grill, fed Harley, and splashed cool water on my face. When I reached into my bag, the little bottle rolled out—like a statement: “Here I am”. I gave myself a spritz. The scent was subtle. Not like my grandma’s perfume that filled the room (actually the entire house). This was… well… bright, yet warm with a feeling of being grounded that hung in the cool air.

Without even realizing it, the corners of my mouth lifted. Not a grin, not yet—just the soft beginning of one. Somehow the fragrance had found my intention before I did. I was ready to walk the white sand for as far as it could take me. The fragrance mixed with the fresh air and the Great Lake was perfect. I think Harley agreed. His tail never stopped wagging.

Each morning after that, I gave myself the same small spritz before heading out. It wasn’t just a scent anymore, it was a reminder: I’m here. I’m breathing. I’m allowed to feel light again.

Maybe Journey isn’t a perfume at all. Maybe it’s permission to ‘be’... to enjoy.